


The Next Steps

by presidentwarden



Series: Renewal [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/F, Force Sensitive Phasma, The Force, fuck the first order honestly, mental programming, slight spoilers there but lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 01:16:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5689003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/presidentwarden/pseuds/presidentwarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first obstacle is past, and Phasma has new confidence in this life-altering decision she’s so foolishly pursued. The burdens of her past can’t be escaped for long -- but Rey in all her bravery may find a way to help, and Leia, even through her heartache, has lent her support.</p><p>- - -</p><p>Phasma thinks it over. All at once, her voice is strangely flat, eyes narrowed as she thinks back to her past. Every moment is still fresh in her mind, a perfect memory wasted on limited routine.</p><p>“The Order did not allow for dreams.”</p><p>This is an odd thought to Rey, who was meant to dream.</p><p>It’s only just now that her vision has extended beyond fields of treacherous sand and the metal ship carcasses that lie mangled among them. She never knew what could be -- what /she/ could be -- til she boarded the Falcon and saw those fields of forest stretching out before her eyes, set foot on real soil and saw an earth richer in life than she could imagine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Next Steps

“Do you have dreams? Of your own?”

Rey’s voice rings out, sharp and true across the stretch of the chamber’s high ceilings. Down here the air is earthy and full of life, and roots tangle down from the walls and sprawl across the floor, structure and world melded together in a way neither has ever seen.

Phasma wrinkles her nose, and scuffs one of the tree-roots with one shiny boot. She is helmetless, but she hasn’t reached a point of willingly shedding that chrome exoskeleton that protects her not just from blows and blasts, but from the judgment of her peers in the Order. Down here things are different. This is the Resistance. They accept all types.

So does the Order, but only as infants, only the ages that can be freely molded into models of the perfect soldier. Diligent, obedient, disciplined. The differences between the Resistance and the Order impress themselves into Phasma’s willing mind at every step. Here, in this free world, they are rowdy and jubilant and live life not just for the organization’s sake, but their own. Intrinsic value, burning enthusiasm. These are new concepts to Phasma.

She can see Rey is adapting, too. The light in her eyes grows with each passing day.

The girl’s voice is echoing in her ears again, and Phasma glances up, her voice a crisp icy edge, strands of blonde hair falling across her forehead. She shakes her head to toss them out of the way, disrupting the illusion of flawless dignity. “What?”

Rey laughs. Not malice, but teasing. She is charmed.

“So, _do_ you?”

Phasma thinks it over. All at once, her voice is strangely flat, eyes narrowed as she thinks back to her past. Every moment is still fresh in her mind, a perfect memory wasted on limited routine.

“The Order did not allow for dreams.”

This is an odd thought to Rey, who was meant to dream.

It’s only just now that her vision has extended beyond fields of treacherous sand and the metal ship carcasses that lie mangled among them. She never knew what could be -- what _she_ could be -- til she boarded the Falcon and saw those fields of forest stretching out before her eyes, set foot on real soil and saw an earth richer in life than she could imagine.

It was not the first incident to disrupt the dull monotony of her life. Nothing could match the first hours spent with her new friend Finn, fleeing enemies far fiercer than any scavenger. But everything new is a revelation in its own right, and it awes her. She is a pilgrim traveling through a world of monuments.

She realizes in those moments how little she really knows.

Now her dreams stretch far beyond the horizons of D’Qar. Much as she loves wandering in the fields and traveling the halls of the resistance base, she still longs for more. Given the chance, and General Leia’s permission, she spends hours exploring the trees that live and move and cast their tendrils down through the soil to shelter the rebels. Here in this training hall, the roots are more visible than ever, coursing along the walls and reinforcing the ceiling like organic pillars. Rey peers up, examining the tangling of branches far overhead. There was no native intelligent life on D’Qar, she hears. But what if there _is?_ Maybe it’s only by the grace of these trees that the rebels have survived at all.

She glances over her shoulder, and voices this thought to Phasma, who stands exasperated, feet planted in the dusty ground and glossy helmet tucked under one lean strong arm. They lock eyes for a moment, and Phasma glances away, scowling. It is much too early for that, since even the slightest gesture of friendship is a chance to be vulnerable. She is a bold defector, not a simpering fugitive.

Phasma retorts, sharp and quick. “Do you intend to tell me these trees are _alive?”_

“All trees are alive.” Has Phasma ever seen a tree? Rey scrunches up her face, squinting at a branch that moves, slithering across its mesh of twigs. From what little she knows of plants, it’s a marvel to behold. “These are different. Don’t you see?”

Phasma pays it all no mind. She stands stock still, and only now and then shifts her weight from foot to foot, silently uncomfortable in the humid indoor heat. And Rey just keeps staring, marveling at the tangle of leaves and branches, so similar and yet different to the wires of the mechanical carcass she used to call home.

She was supposed to bring the captain here to wait, to meet with General Leia. That was the arrangement she’d made when they arrived at the hangar’s doors, Rey wearing her proud little smirk and Phasma inscrutable through the helmet’s dim visor. Rey had escorted her all the way through the base, tiny blaster jammed into a weak spot in the side of that shiny armor. Half for show, half for safety, and her hands had trembled, though not enough that Phasma could feel it.

This room serves all purposes, though more often than not it’s home to mock battles and practice duels, the stone walls marred with the imprint of stray blaster shots. There’s an array of empty, battered Stormtrooper armor suits stacked against the far wall. It is safe, as safe as any place in the Resistance base can be when the First Order’s brightest mind has willingly come to stay.

Is it fair to label Phasma that? Yes, definitely. All the Resistance’s documents indicate that she’s a woman of remarkable character. ‘Courage and tenacity,’ said the file. Rey catches herself eyeing Phasma out of the corner of her eye again, as if to confirm that, and Phasma offers a grudging nod. She has not moved.

Rey checks the shiny time-piece wound around her wrist by a strip of gauzy cloth. It’s a revelation to have something new, pristine, a device made entirely on its own rather than assembled from scattered salvage-bits. She misses her speeder, and the home she made for herself on that scorched planet, but she wouldn’t give any of this up. She silences her meandering ideas, and thinks. Leia isn’t here yet. She’s probably delayed -- looking after Finn, still injured from the lightsaber blow, or comparing notes with Poe, hero of the hour.

In the meantime, there’s nothing to do but chat with Phasma, who is not very talkative at all.

She sits cross-legged near the wall on one of the mats covering the bare floor, and pats the space beside her, an invitation for Phasma to join her. She’s left her staff by the door, but her blaster’s still resting comfortably in the pouch at her hip, worn leather straps cinched across her slender waist. Even in this sanctuary, it’s good to have a weapon.

Rey rests her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, heaving a sigh. Her hair is falling out of one of its buns, but she’ll fix that later. This certainly isn’t the time to worry about looks. “Come on. Sit down.”

Phasma takes a reluctant step closer, towering above the seated girl.

“And take your armor off. You don’t stand a chance of getting around this base safely in Stormtrooper gear.”

The captain looks at her, incredulous. “Are you expecting that they’ll even let me out of this room?”

“You have valuable intelligence, don’t you?”

“I _am_ the valuable intelligence.”

Rey snorts. “That’s fair.”

There’s the tiniest twitch of a smile on Phasma’s stately face.

It vanishes in a second. “Regardless, I refuse to remove my armor. To do so would leave me in a highly vulnerable state.” She has never been seen without it before a crowd. That dreaded vulnerability would be both emotional and physical. Behind the armor, she can be whatever she wishes -- powerful, fearsome, defined by her rank and her skill. Without it she is just another woman, open to others’ instant judgment.

Rey doesn’t get that. “Take it off, and you’ll be a lot safer. Trust me. From what I can tell, everyone’s trained to shoot on sight.”

 _Trust me._ What a foreign concept, for someone who only trusts herself.

But Phasma did trust this girl to take her safely to the base, the home of those precious few forces who’ll stand against the First Order in the months yet to come. And, as a matter of fact, they’ve both shown great faith in each other just by refusing to shoot on sight.

Reluctantly, she nods, and lifts a gloved hand to unclasp her cape.

It falls to the ground and pools at her feet with the gentle clink of armored cloth, an opaque pile of black and crimson, and she bends down to place her helmet atop it with surprising care. Her special blaster is long gone, confiscated by the guards at the hangar. She feels a faint stir of pining for it before she remembers that Rey is right. Appearing fully armed and armored before General Organa would send the wrong message.

Rey is watching inquisitively, with crossed arms and bright eyes, and Phasma gives her a cool stare before continuing.

She reaches behind to unclasp the ammunition belt that rests around her armored hips -- and then she hesitates and stops, like broken gears grinding to a halt. Something has gone wrong. Rey can sense it, and feels a shiver of discomfort.

Phasma’s tone is different, clipped and emotionless. “I should not do this.”

Rey lifts her chin, looking Phasma right in the eyes. They are startlingly blue, luminous and large, and she is captivated for an instant before the captain’s gaze breaks away without mercy.

“Why not?”

Phasma is already reaching down to fetch her cape. “It goes against my protocol.”

Before she can think, Rey snatches hold of her wrist, small fingers wrapping around cold hard chrome. _“No.”_

She’d wondered if this could happen. She’s heard stories from Finn about the ‘renewal therapy’ assigned to Stormtroopers whenever they stepped out of line. It’s all just behavior conditioning, brain-wiping, intended to force young soldiers to obey orders without a question. How much of that has Phasma endured? She doesn’t want to think on it.

Phasma freezes, and aims a glare that could kill.

 _“Excuse_ me.” Her tone drips with indignation and surging rage. This whole situation is an affront to her duty and her dignity. She is a traitor-- no, led astray. She would never let anyone persuade her to remove her armor, weakening her, defying her responsibility--

_this is your choice._

A clear voice cuts through the strict chaos of her programming. She cannot tell whose it is -- hers? another’s? -- but it is a lifeline, a blessing. Slowly, with great care, she pauses, and straightens up, heeding the thought. It glitters through the muck of a cluttered mind.  

_you took these steps yourself. you needed to._

_you’re free._

_now keep going._

Phasma lets the clarity of her own decisions wash over her, fighting to override that disciplined instinct. This was her choice -- to leave the Order behind, and to reject their choices, if not necessarily their original intentions. She lets her arms fall to her sides, and the cloak stays on the floor in an untidy heap. Gaze fixed on the far wall, she waits, and seeks her inner calm, silently wishing to win the war in her mind.

When General Organa arrives moments later, it is a welcome distraction.

She is just the same as always. Petite yet intimidating, she is the sort of woman that earns respect in an instant, but would never demand it. Her greying hair is gathered into a simple style, lacking any hint of royalty. A symbol of the Resistance is neatly pinned to the lapel of her vest. She is composed and melancholy, shoulders bowed. Grief is etched into the lines of her face and buried in her soul. She balances it out with a certain calm hope, drawn from the Force and her own persistence.

Rey snaps to attention, and greets her with a clumsy salute and a sunny smile.

“Hello, Rey.” Leia gathers the girl into a quick hug, but looks past her, scrutinizing the captain. The Force surges between them, a hasty exchange of feelings -- Rey’s worries for Finn and her hope for Phasma’s redemption, Leia’s grief at the loss of Han and her longing for Ben’s salvation. It is almost too much to bear. They separate within moments, wordlessly relieved to see each other safe and well again. Later there’ll be much to discuss.

For her part, Phasma offers only an arched eyebrow and a tilt of the head towards the General.

“I take it you’ve come to deal with _me.”_

“No.” Leia’s tone is gentle and soothing. She looks up to meet Phasma’s eyes, squaring her shoulders. Phasma is tall beyond belief, still menacing in her Stormtrooper armor, but Leia is unafraid. The captain’s arrival is simply a gift to the Resistance. Just like that, Snoke has lost one member of his reliable trio. Only Hux and Kylo-- _Ben--_ remain. Either Phasma could not be tamed and coaxed by the Force’s alluring pull, or she found a way to escape it.

If Phasma can save herself, so too can Ben.

Leia closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and addresses the defector more firmly. “I’d simply like to speak with you.”

It’s odd, to be granted this sort of respect instead of receiving harshly barked orders. Phasma peers at the general owlishly, pale blond hair falling in strands across her temple.

“Would you really, now?”

Leia gives her a look, measuring her options. Kindness could go a long way.

“Yes. We’ll be performing thorough security checks, but I want you to be comfortable here.”

“Well, it is _certainly_ a relief to know I won’t be thrown into your prison for the crime of defecting to your group.”

The general narrows her eyes, but only a little. “Definitely not. Remember, we’re not the Empire or the Order.”

Phasma sniffs. “That, I believe, is the point of me visiting this wretched place.”

Rey stifles a grin, moving towards Phasma, and reaches out to help with her armor. Gently, she unbuckles the ammunition belt that’d caused such panic before. This time she receives no response or complaint. That’s progress.

Leia pays no attention to Rey, who’s now pacing a circle around Phasma, trying to figure out the armor’s clasps and seams. When she lifts a hand towards one of the shoulder pauldrons, Phasma finally shoots her a glare, interrupting the conversation. “You failed to ask permission to touch my armor.”

Rey puts her hands on her hips. “Okay. May I touch your armor?”

“Yes, of course.”

“May I help take it off?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, what’s the problem?”

“You didn’t request first.” Phasma looks down her nose at the shorter girl. She’s clearly unused to dealing with _anyone_ who does not respect the proper chain of command. As for Rey, she’s willing to accept these peculiar quirks of behavior. Residue from the programming, probably, but harmless enough.

They stare at each other for a moment longer, then Rey focuses on stripping the armor with a scavenger’s precision and Phasma’s attention returns abruptly to Leia. “If I might inquire, what do you want from me?”

Leia is ready. “I think it’d be wiser to ask what you want from us.”

Phasma grimaces. “You happen to be the obvious alternative to the First Order. It was natural that I’d come to the Resistance.”

Leia nods. That much is already clear, and it’s not the answer she’s looking for. “I’ll put it plainly. You’re one of the most important people in the Order’s power structure.”

Phasma stands still, studying her, while Rey unfastens her shiny chrome gauntlets and sets them aside.

_“And?”_

Leia sighs. “I’d like to know why you left.”

“I was dissatisfied.” Phasma lifts her chin, looking away. Now is an excellent time to study the strange roots and vines growing along the walls. Rey is actively prying the pauldrons off of her, and Phasma doesn’t flinch as the familiar weight is lifted off her shoulders.

There’s a metaphor in that somewhere, she thinks.

Leia accepts the answer at face value. That’s clearly as much as they’ll get from Phasma from now. Some of the Resistance’s higher-ups are advocating heavy interrogation, to retrieve as many answers as they can from the inscrutable captain. But Phasma is a renewable resource, not an expendable one. Leia would prefer an ally rather than a captive.

“Thank you.” She bows her head slightly, a gesture of respect. “We’ll need your cooperation as soon as you’re ready.” An understatement, if there ever was one. “Do you have any questions?”

“Yes. Where am I going to be kept?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not trusted, and I do not expect to be.” Phasma folds her arms across her shiny chestpiece, moments before Rey can take it off of her. “Will I be kept in a cell, or simply kept here in this room, like a creature in a pen? I can’t imagine I’ll be permitted to freely roam the Resistance base, considering my identity.”

Leia has fortunately thought this through. “You’ll be assigned a room. However, you’ll be required to be accompanied by a trusted Resistance member at all times.”

“Ah.” She gains the faintest hint of a wry smile. “So no privacy, then. Tell me, how, exactly, is this an improvement over the First Order?”

Rey chimes in. “Our food rations are better.”

Phasma looks at her. “That was sarcasm.” A novelty, for her.

“So was mine.” Rey lightly tugs at the edge of the chestpiece, then turns to Leia, her tone decisive and strong. “I’ll accompany her.”

For the flash of an instant, Leia regards her with a mother’s worried gaze. To let another young Jedi be drawn in by the call of the Dark Side would be a crime. But Phasma is a military woman, not a Sith, and she no longer belongs to the Order, not when she’s trying to escape its clutches.

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t ask you to.” Leia draws a careful breath. “You have enough responsibilities hanging over you.” Not to mention the potential threat to Rey’s safety. The conditioning is a formidable thing to overcome. It might always remain, no matter how hard she fights it.

But Phasma persevered through it a minute ago. That holds hope for the future.

“It won’t be a problem.” Rey’s tone is chipper. She lays a hand on Phasma’s forearm, muscular and lean in the black bodysuit she wears beneath the sleeves of armor. Then she lets go before Phasma can protest. “She defected to me, anyway.”

Phasma eyes her. “That was a coincidence.”

Rey deliberately ignores this.

Leia musters a smile, directed somehow at both of them. She is proud. She views Rey with the pride of a new mentor, and Phasma with some vague and indescribable respect. Rey, who has persevered for all her young years in a desert, is capable of handling any challenge. That’s obvious. But Phasma is fearsome, a figure seen in First Order propaganda and Force-driven nightmares. Never would Leia have expected to meet the captain here in the Resistance base’s training room, glittering armor half removed and a permanent scowl on her surprisingly elegant face. Phasma occasionally glances up at the ceiling’s slithering tree-roots with wonder and faint disgust. It’s strange to witness any sort of emotion from her.

How easy it is to forget that there’s always a person behind the enemy’s mask.

Leia swallows hard, gives Rey one more comforting pat on the shoulder, and then she’s gone, exiting the room with decisive short strides.

Phasma watches her go, incredulous. “In the Order, we would never tolerate that kind of informality. Particularly for a General.”

“It’s a good thing this isn’t the Order.” Rey sighs, and returns to the chestpiece with renewed fervor. “Did they weld you into this? Uncross your arms.”

Phasma obeys with a hint of doubt.

It comes off after a bit more effort, and then Phasma’s armor is gone from the waist up. Beneath it, she wears a durable jumpsuit of fine black fabric, neatly fitted to her lean form.

To Rey, this process is strangely soothing, like salvaging, stripping off useless materials to see the value beneath. But there is a physicality to the woman’s presence that’s utterly unlike any droid or device Rey has ever rebuilt, and it awes her. The Order’s finest leader is hers now. Again Rey feels the wonder at having someone, even if an enemy this time unlike Finn and Poe. The idea of companionship seems such a simple thing, that ought to be taken for granted.

Not so for Rey.

She steps back, ignoring the scattered metal parts that surround Phasma. Finally, she can get a clearer picture of the glorious woman beneath the chrome shell. The captain remains striking in looks and stature, with sky-blue eyes, and hair lighter than the finest sand, and a graceful neck and shoulders that evoke strange feelings in Rey. Her gaze flicks down Phasma’s torso to her waist, and abruptly back up to meet her eyes again. Of course Phasma is muscular, too. She _would_ be.

Rey is impressed. 

Phasma is exasperated, but only faintly. “Haven’t you seen a woman out of armor before?”

Rey answers bluntly. “No.”

“Oh, of course. I suppose considering your… situation... ” Phasma studies her, fully aware of Rey’s lonely past, and yet unwilling to voice the rest of the thought out loud.

They linger in silence for too long, gazing at each other in a silent knowing stand-off.

It is Rey who makes the next move. One of her sandy gauze arm-wraps is coming undone, but she tucks it in hastily and extends a hand with firm confidence.

She offers a crooked smile. “I’m glad to have you here.”

“As compared to what alternative, exactly?”

“You staying with the Order. I wouldn’t want you working against us any more than you already have.” A pause. “And I think everybody deserves a chance to find out what they could be.”

Phasma gently clasps the offered hand. “Thank you.”

Her voice is clipped, but truly earnest, with an undertone of emotion she’s never shared before.

“I do look forward to finding out.”

**Author's Note:**

> i know force sensitive phasma is in the tags, but there's not much direct reference to that in the fic, except in one very specific way. later on, you'll see more of it.
> 
> (it's not /massively/ plot important, but it's cool, and contributes to her character growth.)


End file.
